


Soul Power

by homosociallyyours



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:57:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/homosociallyyours/pseuds/homosociallyyours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU based off the "30 day cheesy tropes challenge" prompt idol/fan, in which Sherlock Holmes is the lead in a band called "Consulting Detective" and John Watson is a "blue-eyed soul" singer. </p><p>I was testing myself a little and wrote this as a little one off, but I thought it really worked and so I'm posting it. Super brand new fun style. Honestly if i knew more about music i'd probably make it a series, because I enjoyed this version of the boys. </p><p>Mostly I'm proud of writing totally g-rated fic that doesn't seem terribly ooc and stayed under 1500 words, though. I am usually wordy and dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul Power

**Author's Note:**

> beta'd by rayvanfox, as usual. what a stellar babe he is. 
> 
> also heads up, i am lazy about British slang and my facts, so while some things make historical sense, other things don't. but shh, it's a silly one off fan fiction, don't you even worry that pretty li'l head of yours.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you...” if Sherlock heard those words one more time, he swore he’d take off the blue cashmere scarf that his agent now forced him to wear anytime he went in public and shove it down the throat of the person asking him if he was, in fact, THE Sherlock Holmes.  
“OMG aren’t you...you’re...you ARE! Sherlock Holmes! Of Consulting Detective!  Fuck, your voice on “Deduce Me” is so hot that I can’t even listen to it anymore.” The girl was no more than 16, but was trying her hardest to pass for at least 18 as she beamed at him from behind the counter. Sherlock had hoped to pass through the coffee shop unnoticed, but the barista’s screams had drawn the attention of a few other patrons and they slowly gathered around him, camera phones out. He faked the best smile possible. “Oh my god, yes, that’s me! How ever did you recognize me, you clever girl?” He reached out to boop her nose, thinking Nice touch, Holmes. Now if you can just get out of here we’ll be in the clear.   
  
Of course after the boop the barista needed an autograph and offered him his coffee for free. His smile was more strained this time. “No, actually I insist on paying for all the drinks this evening.” He pulled out several crisp notes and laid them on the counter as the barista squealed, “Holy shit you are legitimately like the nicest fucking star ever, this is totally going on my blog later!”   
“Which way to the loo, ahh--Marisa?” he asked as politely as possible. She directed him and then proceeded to chatter on about him with the customers as he turned the corner.   
  
Pulling off his scarf in a single fluid motion, he pushed hard on the bathroom door so that it flung itself open hard. “Oi! Someone’s in here!” A white man just a bit older than him, with sandy hair and a roundish face turned his head and pursed his lips, annoyed already. Sherlock had had enough of politeness, though, and so he said, “Then get out,” with as much bile as he could muster.  
  
The other man zipped up and turned to him ready with an insult, but stopped himself before saying it, caught by surprise at seeing a celebrity’s face, no doubt. “Sherlock Holmes, ha! Bloody wanker trying to kick me out of the bathroom.”   
“Who are you calling a wanker?” Sherlock asked incredulously.   
“Pretty certain that’d be you, mate,” the other man said with a smirk.   
Sherlock turned the lock on the door and pushed past the other man on his way to the urinal. “Well, I may be a wanker, but I know how to lock the door when I need to use the facilities, mate,” he replied disdainfully. He’d expected the other man to leave at his remark, but instead he held his ground, eyeing Sherlock and looking as though he was considering his next move. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, retreating into his mind palace for a moment.   
  
This was how he really escaped the legions of squealing fans and vitriol spewing detractors. Inside his mind was a vast realm of musical knowledge that he rarely shared with anyone any more. It had all gotten to be too much at a very young age, hearing another child singing and telling them when they were sharp, flat, off key, or singing words incorrectly. They’d call him a freak and taunt him by singing nursery rhymes as badly as possible right in his ear. As he got older, music teachers and fellow orchestra members hated him just as much for the way that he’d not only correct their technique, but also manage to know--and speak aloud--exactly what was the root of their poor playing that day, whether it be an affair with a pupil or having missed breakfast that morning. So he kept the information locked away, but he did so in the most gorgeous place he could imagine. It was a music hall, palatial in size if not necessarily in decor. Through hallways and up stairs were separate rooms, each filled with the sights and sounds of different genres of music. Opera, Jazz, Pop, Swing, Metal, Grunge, Folk--the list continued on and on. He could list artists alphabetically and recite their song catalogues, or he could simply sing their top grossing number one hit without batting an eye.   
  
At that moment, he’d wandered into the soul room and began humming “Try A Little Tenderness” to himself. He was shaken from his reverie by a voice that was both shocking and familiar singing along with him. Closing his eyes he searched the room that was filled with soul, motown, and early R&B until--there. Yes. But it couldn’t be, he’d been off the charts for ages, not heard from and certainly not recording. Still, if it was. Then...   
  
“You. You’re John Watson. Arguably the most talented white soul singer of the 80s. Your cover of “Try A Little Tenderness” in 1987 has been called the best to come out of the UK, which says a lot when one considers just how many perfectly respectable covers have been made of that song.” Moving to the sink to wash up, Sherlock finally risked a look at Watson, who was still standing in the same spot looking smug.   
  
“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asked casually. “Beg pardon?” Watson replied. “That’s what happened to you, why you stopped making music. You joined up with the army, and you’ve only recently returned from the front, invalided out due to a bullet wound in your shoulder. You winced when you turned around to look at me, and of course there’s no privacy in the army, which is why it never occurred to you to lock the door.”   
  
“I’d heard you could do that,” Watson replied after a moment of silence. “Also heard you know every song ever written, sung, or thought about, and exactly how to sing them. Which is pretty brilliant if you ask me.” He finally half-smiled a bit, just a slight hitching up of one side of his face. Sherlock shook his head, still not quite believing his good fortune. “Most people don’t think it’s brilliant. Now’s the time they’d be calling me a ‘bloody wanker’ instead of when I slammed in here earlier,” Sherlock said. Watson simply shook his head in amusement.   
  
Sherlock hesitated for a moment before asking, with as cool an air as he could muster, if the other man would accompany him to dinner. “There’s a small place not far from here, bit of a hole in the wall but people say the fettucine alfredo is wonderful. It’s my treat.” Watson agreed and they exited the toilet together, Sherlock abuzz with excitement and ignoring the stares of the patrons who had gathered outside the loo hoping to catch a glimpse of him. John followed, mostly unnoticed by anyone except the musical genius next to him.   
  
They quietly sang their favorite songs to one another over the dinner table until John finally felt comfortable enough to tell Sherlock to stop calling him ‘Mr. Watson’-- “it makes me feel like an old man!”--and Sherlock felt comfortable enough to admit that John’s first solo album hadn’t left his turntable for about 3 months when he was 13-- “it made me feel, just feel things. For the first time that I could remember since being very small.”   
  
They went on to collaborate on Sherlock’s next Consulting Detective album, with John as lyricist and Sherlock finding the perfect music to accompany. Their voices, Sherlock’s a thrumming bass and John’s a warm tenor, fit together effortlessly. They were a pair from then on, inseparable and stronger together than they ever had been as lone voices.


End file.
